Establishing Priorities
by camlann
Summary: When it comes to priorities, some things have to go first. Two-shot in my Prologue 'verse, set approximately two months after the twins join the family. Rated for language.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This hasn't been beta'ed, but hopefully, there aren't any glaring mistakes. If you see something major, let me know, though, and I'll take care of it. Set shortly after the twins joined the family. Ages are twins (8), Sam (13), and Dean (17). Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: Kripke's stuff is still his, and I only own that which I came up with.

Establishing Priorities

"You wanna explain to me why I'm here, son?" John asked without preamble as he walked into the classroom where Dean was slumped in a chair placed front and center before his English teacher's desk.

Dean's face paled and he slowly sat up straight, his eyes on his father, as though trying to gauge what sort of mood he was in. He must not have liked what he saw, John guessed, because Dean bit down on his lower lip and looked away, unable to maintain eye contact.

"Mr. Winchester?" the young woman asked as she stood from her desk to greet him. But he held his hand up, motioning for her to wait as he set things straight with his errant seventeen-year-old.

"Let me rephrase," he told Dean when the teenager failed to answer him. "I want an explanation, and I want it now."

"I pissed Ms. Lyman off," Dean mumbled.

"_Excuse_ me?"

He could see the instant it dawned on his oldest that his phrasing wasn't appreciated because Dean winced and tried again.

"She's ticked at me," Dean said lamely, and John fought the urge to roll his eyes heavenward as he stared down at his oldest.

_Damn. I thought we were past this kind of shit._

Things were still a shade rough at home, John knew, but he hadn't thought it was bad enough to elicit this sort of behavior again. The twins had been with them for two months now, and they'd all finally started adjusting. But with school starting back, they were all floundering a bit. John had just gotten used to no longer having to inspect homework and enforce bedtimes, and now, he found himself having to start all over again.

_Hell, Sam's the only one who's glad school's back in session. _

Aubrey had been tearful and resistant, clinging to John with growing panic every morning at the thought of letting him out of her sight. He'd been called in for parent-teacher conferences three times already and it was only the fourth week of school.

Unfortunately, with all of the drama going on with Aubrey, John had failed to keep abreast of his oldest son's school performance, and the oversight was now coming back to bite him on the ass.

"John Winchester," he said, turning to face Dean's teacher finally.

"Theresa Lyman," she told him, reaching over her desk to offer her hand. He shook it, pleased by the strong grip before he dropped into the chair she's placed beside Dean's. "It's nice to meet you. Though I wish it could be under better circumstances," she said with a regret-tinged smile.

"What seems to be the problem?" he asked, readying himself for what would no doubt be a laundry list of offenses.

"I'm afraid Dean's struggling to adjust to my class. He's informed me that his previous English teacher didn't assign homework. And while I can appreciate a certain measure of difficulty in readjusting to homework," she went on, "I feel like four weeks is enough time for him to have gotten used to how I run my class."

_What the fuck?_ he thought, turning a harsh, incredulous look on his wayward seventeen-year-old.

"You told her _what_?"

Dean squirmed in his chair uncomfortably, unable to meet John's eyes as his lie came to light.

_Unbelievable._

"Tell her the truth, Dean."

"Dad—"

"_Now_, Dean."

"My last English teacher _did_ give us homework," Dean admitted, unable to meet his teacher's eyes.

"I see," Ms. Lyman said softly, and though he couldn't be sure, John thought she looked a bit dejected, as though hurt that one of her students would lie to her.

"And?" John prompted, giving Dean a hard look, one which Dean knew well enough the meaning of as well as what the consequences would be if he didn't.

"And…'m sorry," Dean mumbled. "I shouldn't have lied to you."

"Yes, I wish you hadn't," she replied, giving him a disappointed look before turning to John. "Mr. Winchester, I'll be honest with you. Dean is a very bright young man—I expect a lot from him, as I do _all_ of my students. The work I assign is intended to help Dean prepare for college as well as—"

"Well, I'm not going to college," Dean broke in, " so what does it matter if I do the homework or not?"

"Dean," John said tightly. "Apologize."

"For what?! All I said was—"

"For interrupting for starters. Is that enough, or shall I continue?"

"'s enough," Dean muttered, knowing better than to argue any further. "Sorry," he told his teacher sullenly before looking back at John with an 'are you satisfied?' expression that was guaranteed to piss John off on a _good _day. And this was not a good day.

Leaning over, John gripped the collar of Dean's jacket and tugged him closer, waiting until Dean's eyes locked on to his before he spoke.

"This attitude of yours is neither wanted nor appreciated. So I _suggest_ you get your act together and start showing some respect for me and your teacher. You understand me?"

"Yessir," Dean said, his jaw tight as his face flushed with a mixture of anger and embarrassment.

_Yeah, nothing like getting called on your bullshit by your old man in public._

"Is he giving you this kind of attitude in class?" John asked, turning his full attention back to Ms. Lyman.

"When he's actually here…yes, a bit," she replied, and John could tell from her tone that she was most likely downplaying the severity of things.

_Shit. Wait a minute…_

"When he's here?" John asked, not really sure that he wanted clarification, but knowing he needed to hear it nevertheless.

"He's actually missed quite a bit of my class. And on the occasions where he _does_ make it, he's tardy more often than not. What it all boils down to, Mr. Winchester, is that I can't get any work out of Dean, and if he continues in this manner, I'm going to have no choice but to fail him."

"Do you have a list of the assignments that he hasn't turned in?"

"Yes sir, I do," she said, rifling through a file on the edge of her desk before producing a stack of stapled sheets which she offered to John.

"This everything?" he asked, idly flipping through the sheets to skim the various assignments.

"All but this week's."

"I'll make sure he does them. You'll have them by the beginning of next week."

"Dad—" Dean began, no doubt about to protest, but John held up a hand, forestalling any further complaint.

"As far as him making it to class every day—_on time_, I should say—do you think you could sign the bottom of his notes at the end of class to let me know he was there and not tardy?"

"Dad, c'mon, that's crap! I'm not a kid!" Dean exploded before she could reply.

"If you insist on acting like a little boy, I'm gonna treat you like one," John told him sternly. "So if that means I have to get your teacher's signature every day in order to ensure that you make it to class, then so be it. And I don't wanna hear another word about it." He turned away from the now glowering teenager and faced Ms. Lyman again. "Ms. Lyman, how does that plan sound to you?"

"I think it's a wonderful idea."

"Is there anything else I need to be aware of, his attitude aside?"

_Because I'll nip _that _in the bud as soon as we get home._

"No, I think we've covered everything."

"In that case, Dean, go wait in the hall with your brothers and sister."

"Why?" Dean asked belligerently, the disrespectful tone raising John's hackles like little else could. John raised his eyebrow, wondering when his oldest son had gotten so recklessly defiant. 

_Or downright stupid._

"How about because I said so? You're in enough trouble as it is—you really want to keep on?"

"No sir," Dean ground out.

"That's what I thought. I don't care how old you think you are, I won't tolerate you being disrespectful, to me or to anyone else. So you apologize for the last time to Ms. Lyman, and you go out in the hall like I told you to before I _really _embarrass you."

Without another word, Dean stood, his body rigid as he bit out an apology and stormed out of the room.

"If you have any more problems with him, give me a call and I'll take care of it," John told Ms. Lyman as he watched Dean go.

"I'll do that," she replied. "I'm sorry I had to bother you."

"No, you were right to call me in. Dean likes to test authority figures, see how much he can get away with, how far he can push the limits. Now he knows. He'll straighten up," John said, climbing to his feet.

_Because he knows the consequences won't be pretty if he doesn't._

"Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Winchester," she said, standing as well. "I appreciate your help," she told him, reaching out to shake his hand once more.

"I'll look for your signature in his notes on Monday. I'll be in touch." Bending, he picked up Dean's abandoned backpack as well as the packet of assignments and headed for the door.

In the hallway, Dean was slouched against a row of lockers, his hands stuffed in his pockets as he stared morosely down at the floor. Sam was sitting by his feet, his back to the lockers as he pored over his math homework, no doubt wanting to ask for Dean's help but sensing that the older boy wouldn't be too amenable to the request.

Braden was beside Sam, doodling who-know's-what in his latest sketchbook, and as for Aubrey, she was beside the door when John came out, latching onto him the second he emerged.

"Are we goin' home now, Daddy?" Aubrey asked, grabbing a hold of the corner of his coat as John handed Dean's backpack off to the moody seventeen-year-old.

"Yeah. Pack up, boys, and let's go."

Without releasing her hold on him, Aubrey stooped down to lift her backpack off the floor where she'd dropped it, sliding one of the pink and purple straps over her shoulder.

John led the way to the parking lot, Aubrey's hand was now firmly clasped in his own and Braden walked sedately beside them as Sam and Dean followed more slowly behind them.

"So what happened?" he heard Sam ask Dean, but Dean was silent, his sense of self-preservation finally kicking in to prevent him from saying anything that might rouse John's ire any further.

_About damn time, too. Too bad it's too little, too late._

"That bad, huh?" Sam asked.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean growled, obviously not wanting to be reminded of how much trouble he faced.

"Hey, don't get pissed at me—'s not _my_ fault you're gonna get your ass handed to you when we get home."

"You're gonna get _your_ ass handed to you if you don't shut the hell up," Dean sneered, the menace in his voice all too real, and John knew it was time to step in before things between the two of them got ugly. Dean was entirely too quick to lose his temper these days, and as pissy as Sam was, letting them go at it was risking actual injury.

"Boys. Enough."

The hostile seventeen-year-old bit down on whatever else he might have said, and wisely, Sam shut his mouth as well, which was good considering that the last of John's patience had been used up in the meeting with Dean's teacher.

The twins piled into John's truck without preamble, Aubrey scrambling into the middle, as Dean and Sam slid into the Impala, which was parked beside the truck.

"Dean, no detours, no pit-stops. You'd better be right behind me when I pull into the drive, understand?"

"Yessir."

John climbed into the truck, and pulled out of the parking lot with a roar of the engine, his eyes going to the rearview mirror to ensure that Dean was behind him. Aubrey fell asleep on the way home, the constant state of paranoid vigilance she'd maintained during the school day having drained her.

"How'd your sister do today?" he asked softly, causing Braden to turn, the little boy looking back at him with eyes that were far too old.

"She cried a lot again. We don't like the other kids there, and they're mean to her. It hurts her feelings, and that makes it worse, since she's scared, too."

"Shit," John muttered.

It was exhausting. The emotional turmoil of dealing with her sobbing and pleading with him every morning when it was time for school was definitely beginning to take its toll.

_On all of us it seems_, John decided. Dean obviously wasn't handling things well. John normally kept a close eye on him, well aware of Dean's tendency to challenge authority figures as well as his inability to sit still for long in a classroom.

_And when Dean gets antsy, shit happens._

Having Aubrey to deal with had caused John's attention to waver, which had been the equivalent of issuing an open invitation for trouble. And that was exactly what had happened. Dean had reverted to form, pushing the envelope and being an all-around pain-in-the-ass for at least one, if not all, of his teachers.

_Hell, I don't even know how many he has at this school. You're slipping, Johnny. Not good._

Anyone who knew Dean knew what a horrendous mistake it was to leave Dean to his own devices without first establishing the boundaries. All of them. Because Dean was nothing if not brilliant when it came to finding the weaknesses and loopholes in any given order.

Aubrey and Braden weren't faring so well either. Though Braden wasn't quite so obvious about it as his sister, having to deal with Aubrey's emotional distress all day at school more often than not left the eight-year-old just as drained as his sister at the end of the day.

Which left Sam. Who had been surprisingly easy to handle since school had started back.

_Shit. I know things are bad when _Sam_ is the least of my problems._

By the time John pulled the truck to a stop in the driveway of the house they were currently renting, Braden had succumbed to sleep as well, the throaty grumble of the GMC's engine combining with the boy's own exhaustion putting him down for the count pretty fast.

With a tired sigh, John got out, noting with satisfaction the sound of the Impala rumbling up behind them as he gently slid Aubrey out of the truck and into his arms before quietly shutting the door.

"Sam, get Braden out," John ordered softly over his shoulder. "And Dean, I want _your_ ass parked at the kitchen table."

There was no response, but then, John wasn't really expecting one.

With Braden and Aubrey settled on their beds, John quietly shut their bedroom door and headed for the kitchen. Dean was there, glaring mutinously at the table, his backpack discarded on the floor.

"So you wanna explain to me what the hell you were thinking?" John asked, bracing his hands on the back of one of the kitchen chairs as he stared down at his oldest.

"Not really."

"Tough. 'Cause I wasn't really giving you a choice. Start talking. Why were you skipping class and not doing the work? Was it too hard?"

"No, I just—"

"No?"

"No _sir_," Dean corrected.

"Then why?"

"I just didn't feel like it."

"Do you realize how fucking ridiculous that sounds? You're gonna have to do better than that, Dean."

"It's stupid, Dad," Dean blurted out. "I mean, what's the point? How the hell is 'Ode to a Fucking Nightingale' gonna help me, huh?"

"It doesn't _have_ to help you, Dean. Whether you want to or not, your teacher told you to read it, and I expect you do it. That goes for all of your assignments. Now you've got a lot of work to do, so I suggest you get started."

"But it's Friday," Dean protested, staring back at John incredulously.

"Yeah, so?"

"It's just…I have plans with Laura Sullivan—I'm supposed to take her to a movie tonight."

"Too bad you're gonna have to call her and cancel," John told him mildly as he turned away to open the fridge and grab a beer.

"Aw, c'mon! Look, what if I took her to the movie and then took her right home after—I could start my English shit right after that," Dean offered, giving John a game-winning smile that might have worked on anybody but John Winchester. John stared back at the kid over the top of his beer, wondering distantly if his son was truly that deluded.

"Dean, I just got called in for a parent-teacher conference because of your behavior. Do you honestly think I'm in a mood to play 'Let's Make a Deal' with you so that you can do your damnedest to get in some girl's pants by bribing her with a movie?"

"Dad, c'mon, it's only a couple of hours!" Dean begged, but John was having none of it.

"No."

"You don't understand, Dad—this girl is fuckin' hot! If I blow this date off, she might not give me another shot," Dean explained to him earnestly. "Look, I'll sweeten the pot—I'll clean the guns tonight before I start on my English."

"Oh, you're gonna clean the guns anyway," John told him bluntly. "It just won't be tonight, because tonight, you're working on your English."

"Shit! C'mon, Dad! You gotta help me out here!"

"I'm sorry, you must have me confused with someone who cares about the nature of your social life. One missed date won't kill you. But I will, if you don't get this English finished and start pretending you give a damn about your schoolwork. You know I don't expect you to get A's, Dean—I just ask that you pass, which you won't if you keep skipping class and screwing around. We can't afford the attention, for one thing, and your mother…" He paused, looking down before turning his stare once more on his son. "Your mom would have wanted you to pass. And I'll be damned if I'm gonna let either of our boys flunk out and not get a diploma."

Dean slumped in his chair and fell silent, though John couldn't say for certain whether it was the mention of Mary and the realization that he wasn't going to win that silenced him.

"Now, you get your English done, then we can talk about you taking this girl out _next_ weekend. Call her now and then get started on those assignments. You're gonna work until dinner. Lights out at eight thirty."

"Eight-thirty? Are you serious?"

"As a heart-attack."

"But that's before the twins even go to bed!"

"I'm aware of that. You're going to bed early—first, so you can think about how unwise it was to neglect your schoolwork and _then _think I wouldn't find out about it, and second, because you need to be well rested for when I wake you tomorrow morning at five."

"What the hell for?!"

"So you can get an early start—four weeks' worth of English assignments really pile up, son. You've gotta stay on top of 'em," John told him placidly, taking a swig of his beer.

"Dad, this is bullshit!" Dean barked out angrily, and John set his beer down on the table with a loud thump, crowding into Dean's personal space so that he could look Dean straight in the eyes.

"No, what's bullshit is you not handling things the way you should have, the way I taught you. I may not win any 'Father of the Year' awards, but I _know _I raised you better than that. I didn't teach you to blow off your responsibilities, Dean," he said sternly, waiting for Dean to drop his gaze before he straightened and backed away. "Now, you had the option of doing your assignments on time, and instead you chose to dick around. These are the consequences of your choice, and you're gonna have to live with them. Maybe next time you get the urge to screw around at school, you'll remember this and make a better decision. Now go call the girl and then get to work. We'll talk about the rest of your punishment later."

"The rest—what, this isn't enough?"

"Son, this isn't even the start of it. This is just you catching up on everything you failed to do at school. We haven't addressed your irresponsible behavior or the disrespect you showed your teacher, not to mention this attitude problem you seem to be having."

"Shit," Dean mumbled.

"Yeah, but like I said, we'll talk about it later, after I've had time to think about it," John said, dropping his empty bottle into the recycling bin that Sam had been bitching at him to use before heading for the door.

"Oh, and Dean?"

"Sir?" Dean asked slowly, obviously wondering if John had suddenly changed his mind about addressing his other transgressions.

"No more than five minutes on the phone."

With a sigh, Dean pushed away from the table and headed for the phone, and John knew without a doubt that Dean would watch the time carefully, unwilling to risk the consequences of disregarding the order.

_He learned that one the hard way_, John thought wryly, recalling the one and only time Dean had overstepped the time limit on the phone with a girl. John had picked up the phone, and by the time he'd finished talking to the girl, Dean had been too embarrassed to risk it every happening again.

_Gotta hand it to him—he doesn't make the same mistake twice. 'course, that doesn't mean he won't come up with some new way to get away with the old mistake. Too bad he's awfully damn good at it._

_Shit._


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Establishing Priorities

Chapter 2

Three days, Shakespeare's _Macbeth_, and a chunk of the _Canterbury Tales_ later, Dean was at the table eating breakfast with Sammy when his father walked in, heading straight for the coffeepot. Glad he'd swigged the last of the forbidden cup he'd poured a meager ten minutes ago, Dean surreptitiously got up to rinse the mug out at the sink, sincerely hoping he was managing to look casual.

As he reached the sink, however, his father stilled, frowning down at the coffeepot even as Dean's insides froze.

"Dean, did you drink some of this?"

"What makes you think I'd drink some?" Dean asked, hoping the deflection would work. Lying outright was too damn risky with his father and it so rarely worked.

_Of course, a lame ass response rarely works, either,_ he thought, wincing inwardly at how stupid he'd just sounded.

"You didn't answer my question, which tells me pretty much what I wanted to know. But I want to hear you say it."

_Shit, Dad. C'mon! Do we really have to do this? Why you gotta hear it if you already know?_

"Dean," John prompted when Dean didn't answer immediately.

"I had to," Dean blurted out, unable to stop the words from spilling out of his mouth. Not for the first time wishing he could control himself a little better at times like these. When he was angry, he could clam up pretty well, but otherwise, the filter between his mouth and his brain seemed to be on a mostly permanent hiatus.

_Or it could just be the caffeine…_

"You _had_ to?" John asked dryly, quirking an eyebrow as he waited for Dean to elaborate.

"You're making me go to English. It's hell, Dad, absolute hell. Without caffeine, I'm not gonna make it," he told his father earnestly, meaning every word. It wasn't a lie. Ms. Lyman was nice enough for a teacher, he supposed, but English bored the hell out of him. It had definitely made for a crap-tastic weekend. He'd been doing English assignments for three days, and he still wasn't finished. And the early bedtime had sucked ass majorly. It was almost as bad as getting up at the ass-crack of dawn to do _more_ English.

So he felt totally justified in sneaking one freaking cup of coffee.

"Fine," John told him, apparently in good enough of a mood to let the infraction go this time. "But no more than a cup. And if I hear that you're too jittery and wound up to sit still in class, I'm cutting you off, understand?"

"Yessir."

"Did you finish those assignments?" John asked as he began to pour himself a cup.

"Almost."

"And by almost, you mean you're lacking…"

_Shit._

"A book report and an essay, a few worksheets."

_Or five, but who's counting?_

"Why aren't they done?"

"Um…the worksheets 'cause I've been busy with the other shit, and the essay 'cause I just finished reading the parts of the _Canterbury Tales _that I'm supposed to write the damn essay _about_."

"And the book report?"

_You noticed that, huh? Shit._

"I'll get back to you on that."

"Dean. Why isn't the book report done?"

"'Cause I have to actually read 'a book of my choosing' to _do_ the book report, and the only thing I've read lately isn't something I can write about."

"Yeah, since _Playboy_'s the last thing you read," Sam broke in with a laugh. "It isn't exactly known for its well-written articles," he finished, and with a fake smile, Dean reached out to smack his younger brother in the back of the head.

"Nobody _reads_ a _Playboy_, dumb-ass," Dean retorted. "They aren't reading material—they're strictly for—"

"Dean," John interrupted, shaking his head pointedly at his oldest son before he could finish the sentence.

_Like he doesn't know. Seriously._

"Now that we've established that the last thing you read _wasn't_ a _Playboy_, why don't you enlighten me and tell me what it is that you _did_ read?"

"_The Satyricon_. Well, the werewolf parts anyway. Most of that shit's dry-as-hell, Dad, but the werewolf parts are fucking cool. Then again, I think Ms. Lyman would disagree, don't you think?"

"You're still writing a book report, Dean. Go by the library during your lunch period and get something appropriate."

"Like what?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow at his father skeptically.

"Why don't you ask your brother?" John asked as he finished off his coffee and went back for more. "He reads a lot—he can probably suggest something you can stand."

"Yeah, good idea," Dean said before Sam could protest, grabbing his younger brother up in a headlock for a world-class noogie.

"Ow! Quit it, Dean!"

"Dean, stop tormenting your brother. 's bad strategy, son—you don't want to piss off somebody you need help from. Trust me, I know that for a fact."

_Yeah. Truer words and all that…_

"Tell me something good to read, Sammy," Dean told his little brother as he released him.

"Why should I, jerk?" Sam retorted, rubbing at the crown of his head with a disgruntled expression.

"Because if you help me out, I won't bug the hell outta you."

"Okay, then…read _Jane Eyre_. You'll love it," Sam told him, and Dean frowned, not sure he liked the sound of it. Not to mention the look in Sam's eye when he'd suggested it.

"Does it have zombies in it?"

"Uh, no."

_Damn._

"It better not be some stupid-ass chick book, Sammy, or I'll kick your ass, I swear."

Sam was silent for a moment, and Dean knew without a doubt that his brother's book suggestion was a no-go.

"Try _Catcher in the Rye_ instead," Sam told him after a moment, sighing regretfully.

"Any zombies in that?"

"No, Dean. No zombies."

"Well, is it about baseball?"

"No. Just a foul-mouthed asshole. You'd like it."

Dean grinned, ruffling Sam's hair as he opened his mouth to comment.

"Alright, Dean, listen," John said suddenly, knocking on the table to get Dean's attention as he sat down at the table. "I've gotta go outta town today, probably won't be back until late tonight. So that means you're gonna have to hold down the fort. You'll need to pick the twins up from school, make sure everyone gets dinner and—"

"Dad. You've been leavin' me in charge since I was ten. I think I know what to do," Dean told him bluntly, a little annoyed by the implication that he couldn't do his job.

"Yeah, I guess you do. Make sure you come straight home and get started on that English work that you haven't finished yet, and do your homework. And don't try to weasel out of it—your sister will rat you out in a heartbeat."

_Yeah, she totally will._

She wouldn't do it maliciously, he knew, at least not usually, but she couldn't keep a secret worth a damn.

"Dean, did you hear me?"

"Yeah, yeah, I heard you," he told his dad absently as he shoved the last of his toast into his mouth. He was already dreading what was no doubt going to be a long-ass day.

"Oh, and leave your English notebook on the table for me when I get home—I expect to see Ms. Lyman's signature. If I don't, I'm going to assume you skipped, in which case, you and I are going to have problems. You get what I'm saying?"

"Yessir," he mumbled, wishing his dad wouldn't bring all that shit up in front of Sammy. Of course, at that moment, Sam snickered, and it completely set Dean off.

"Why don't you shut the hell up?" Dean snarled, aiming a glare at the thirteen-year-old.

"Stand down, Dean," John said sternly. "Sam, go get your shoes on—you two need to get going."

"I swear, if he starts in on me in the car, I'm gonna beat the shit outta him, Dad," Dean said bluntly as he shoved his chair back and went to dump his dishes in the sink.

"I'm beginning to reconsider letting you have the coffee," John said with a sigh.

"Nevermind," Dean grumbled, grabbing his books and heading for the door for what was sure to be a crap-tastic Monday.

----------

One pop-quiz, two badly dressed teachers, and four equally bad lectures later, he was staring at the clock in his calculus class, watching the minute-hand painstakingly tick closer and closer to lunch. He had a dollar burning a hole in his pocket, just waiting to be shoved into the vending machine in exchange for some extra caffeinated sustenance before his English class, and he could already taste the Pepsi, cool and sweet on his tongue.

'_s almost as good as getting laid._ _Almost. Yeah, getting laid is first, with pie running a close second. But Pepsi comes right after that. Followed by M&Ms, of course. And cheeseburgers…damn, I'm hungry._

Eight minutes and thirty-two seconds before the lunch bell was scheduled to ring, the office buzzed the room, interrupting Mr. Schuler in mid-lecture.

"Mr. Schuler?"

"Yes?" Mr. Schuler asked impatiently, obviously more than a little put out by the interruption.

"Sorry for the interruption, but we need Dean Winchester in the office."

_Oh fuck. _

Dean immediately set his mind to trying to figure out what he could be in trouble for, automatically eliminating a few options. He hadn't been in a fight since the first week of school, and he'd managed to stay under the radar as far as that one went anyway.

_Haven't written on any walls…and I erased the shit I wrote on my desk in Mr. Montgomery's class…and I've been pretty damn subtle about make-out sessions in the janitor's closet. 'sides, if somebody had seen _that_, I'd have been confronted on the spot. They wouldn't wait to call me on that…shit, what did I do?_

"Mr. Winchester."

Mr. Shuler's voice pulled him abruptly back to the present, and he looked up to see Mr. Schuler holding out a hall pass.

"Go directly there, Mr. Winchester—if you're not there in a few minutes, they'll buzz back. No detours."

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes—as if he would be stupid enough to try and duck out when he'd been called specifically—Dean slammed his book closed, grabbed his stuff, and headed for the door, snatching the pass out of Mr. Shuler's hand as he brushed past him.

When he reached the office, the secretary handed him the phone with a look Dean couldn't quite decipher.

_Oh, shit, please don't let this be about Dad._

"Hello?"

"Dean Winchester?" an unfamiliar female voice asked, and Dean felt his heart stop in his chest, his first thought being that it was just what he feared, that the person on the other end of the line was calling from a hospital to tell him that something had happened to his dad.

"Yeah…um, I mean, yes, ma'am."

"Janine Nielson. I'm the principal over at the elementary school." And at that moment, Dean couldn't decide which he felt more: relief or worry.

"What's wrong?"

"We're having some trouble with your sister, I'm afraid. We tried to get in touch with your father, but so far, we haven't been able to reach him."

"He's out of town for the day," Dean explained impatiently. "Look, what's wrong with my sister?"

_Man, it still feels weird to say that._

"We'll she's currently wedged herself under the cabinets here in the office. I could pull her out, but I'm worried that it would do more harm than good. She's terribly upset."

"Is she crying?"

"I'm afraid so."

_Shit._

"What set her off?"

We're not entirely sure—what little we've been able to garner is that some of the other children in her class said something to her. What exactly that was, we're still not sure. But it wasn't until we couldn't reach your father that she _really_ got upset."

_You fucking told her you couldn't reach Dad?! Are you shitting me? Dammit!_

"Is Braden with her?"

"He hasn't budged from his spot in front of the cabinet. He's been trying to talk her out, but so far, he hasn't had any luck."

_Of course not. Because that would be too easy._

"If she'll listen to you, tell her I'm on my way. I should be there in ten minutes," Dean said, not bothering to wait for confirmation before he hung up. He didn't waste time signing out or trying to explain, simply heading for the door without a backwards glance for the secretary who was calling his name.

-----------

It took a hell of a lot longer to coax Aubrey out than he'd reckoned, and he'd stupidly thought that she'd go back to class once she'd settled down. But no, when she finally did emerge, she latched onto him, her arms around his neck and her legs wrapped around his torso as she clung to him.

As he carried her to the car, Braden following along behind with their backpacks, Dean glanced down at his watch, cringing when he saw what time it was.

"Shit."

_Dad's gonna tear me a new one when he gets home._

"Wha's wrong, D?" Braden asked, staring up at him as Dean unlocked the Impala.

"I missed English."

"But you miss English all the time," Braden pointed out reasonably, clearly not understanding why Dean was upset.

"Yeah, but this time, Dad's gonna kick my ass for it. I'm supposed to get Ms. Lyman's signature. He's gonna fucking kill me for skipping class right after he all but told Ms. Lyman I'd be in class from now on."

"But it's not _your_ fault," Braden stated as he slid into the car and scooted over to make room for Aubrey.

"I don't think anybody gives a shit, Bray," Dean told him as he managed to pry Aubrey away from him long enough to get her into the car. She dropped heavily onto the seat, perched on her knees while she waited for him to get in before practically gluing herself to his side.

_Ass kicking from Dad aside, I better stop by and hand in all that shit I did over the weekend, at least try to explain why the hell I missed class or Ms. Lyman's liable to call Dad and get my ass in even more trouble than it already is. _

Two Metallica songs, eight Peanut M&Ms, and four stoplights later, Dean wheeled into his parking space at the high school. It was almost 2:15, which meant his English class was a few minutes from ending. Lucky for him, Ms. Lyman had her planning period right after class, so at least he wouldn't have to go looking for her.

_Like that's going to make it any better. This is gonna suck out loud._

Knowing he was only delaying the inevitable by sitting in the car any longer, Dean heaved a sigh and climbed out of the car, grabbing his backpack and catching Aubrey as she dove into his arms. Braden piled out without a word, shutting the Impala's door behind him as Aubrey buried her face in Dean's neck and settled against him with a shudder.

They hit the main hallway right as the bell rang, and within seconds, the hallways were flooded with noisy high school students, all clamoring to socialize _and _get to their lockers before their next classes. Without slowing, Dean reached back with one hand and pulled Braden in front of him, steering the eight-year-old by the shoulder. Ignoring the strange looks he was getting, Dean guided Braden to Ms. Lyman's door before pausing.

"Look, why don't you two wait here—I'll only be a minute," Dean said, bending to put Aubrey down, only to bite back a curse when she refused to relinquish her grip. And without Sammy, Dean knew there was no way in hell his sister was gonna go for it. "Shit, Aubrey—c'mon," Dean groaned.

"Nooooo," she whined, tightening her grip on him even as he tried to peel her off. But when choking became a real concern though, he finally admitted defeat, hefting her a little higher and shifting her weight to one arm so he could knock lightly on the door frame.

Ms. Lyman looked up, her frown at seeing him turning to a look of unconcealed confusion when she saw twins.

"Um…so, yeah, I'm sorry I didn't make it today. Something came up," Dean told her as he walked into the room.

"I'm listening," she replied guardedly, setting her pen down and focusing her attention on him, her eyes flickering surreptitiously from Dean to his younger siblings.

"Family emergency, and Dad's outta town 'til tonight. There was no one else."

"I see," she told him, and Dean grimaced.

_Not exactly the forgiving response I was gunning for. 'course, I guess it's all relative—she could be totally bitching me out._

"But I got most of the work done that you sent home," he told her, letting his backpack slip off his shoulder only to realize that he didn't have two free hands with which to unzip the stupid thing. He stooped to put Aubrey down, but she whimpered pitifully, tightening her grip on his neck.

"Aubrey, c'mon, cut me some fu—freaking slack, here," Dean said softly, only barely managing to catch himself before the harsh profanity slipped out.

Without a word, Braden stepped up beside Dean, unzipping the backpack and grabbing a somewhat crinkled stack of papers out before walking forward to place them on the edge of Ms. Lyman's desk.

"Um…I didn't finish _everything_, but I swear you'll have the rest by Friday."

"Have a seat, Dean," she said after a long moment, and with a cramped feeling in the pit of his stomach, Dean dropped into a chair, shifting Aubrey until she was settled sideways on his lap. She slumped against his chest with a shaky, exhausted sigh, and Dean tightened his grip on her comfortingly for just a moment before looking back at Ms. Lyman.

"Are these your siblings?"

"Yes ma'am. Well, two of 'em anyway."

"You're 'posed to introduce us, D," Aubrey mumbled into Dean's shirt, earning a smile from Ms. Lyman. "Pastor Jim says it's good manners."

_Shit._

"Ms. Lyman," he began with a heavy sigh, "this is my sister Aubrey, and my brother Braden."

"Hey," Aubrey mumbled, peering back at Ms. Lyman with a shyness Dean had rarely seen, while Braden settled for a stoic nod. "Are you Dean's English teacher?"

"Yes, I am," Ms. Lyman told Aubrey warmly, and Dean wondered absently why she couldn't be like that in class.

"Oh. Sorry," Aubrey said sympathetically. "D don't like English."

_Way to be helpful, Aubrey. Thanks._

"Yes, I know," Ms. Lyman replied, a hint of regret in her voice, though Dean honestly couldn't figure out why the hell she'd care whether Dean liked English or not.

_So long as I do the work, what does it matter? Oh wait…I'm _not_ doing the work. Right._

"That's why he skips my class so often and doesn't do his work," Ms. Lyman went on to say, cutting her eyes at Dean pointedly.

"But Daddy was real mad about that, and he said D had better get his shit together or he was gonna be in _really _deep shit," Aubrey said matter-of-factly, and Dean winced, wishing that Aubrey hadn't chosen that moment to spout John Winchester vernacular. "D said he wasn't gonna skip no more, and he's workin' real hard on his homework. It ain't his fault he wasn't here today, so please don't be mad at him. It was my fault," Aubrey murmured miserably.

"No, it wasn't," Dean told her vehemently. "It's the fault of those little shitheads in your class that upset you in the first place."

_And it's Dad's fault for going outta town without telling you._

"Aubrey, I'm not mad at Dean. Disappointed, yes. But mad, no."

"But—"

"Aubrey, hush," Dean told her, his voice soft but firm. "Look, Ms. Lyman," Dean said, turning his gaze on his English teacher, "I'm sorry that I missed your class right after my dad told you I'd be here. I was gonna be here, I swear to you. But some things are more important. And even though it means I'm gonna get my ass handed to me when Dad doesn't see your signature on my non-existent notes for today….well, I have priorities. And family comes first. I just wanted you to know that I wasn't skipping just to piss you off."

"Why don't you tell me what happened, and then I'll decide whether or not to give you my signature."

Dean could hardly dare to hope, but if she went for it, he could manage to avoid the major ass-chewing he'd get if he didn't bring home her signature. Of course, there was always forgery, but it was risky. His dad tended to figure it out, and even on the off-chance that he _didn't_, the truth would no doubt come when his dad called Ms. Lyman for an update. Which he _would_, Dean knew, because that's what he did when he told a teacher he'd stay in touch. Dean knew that, too, because he'd had a lot of experience.

_Shit, what do I tell her? Not much is gonna be convincing enough. Fuck. I'm gonna have to tell her the truth._

"Their mom died a couple of months ago," Dean told her, not really wanting to talk about what he considered family business but not really seeing any way around it.

'_s the one time that the truth is actually more convincing than any lie I could come up with, which is saying a lot considering what a master bull-shitter I am. Still, I don't like tellin' her this shit. 's nobody's business but ours._

"Oh?" Ms. Lyman asked, and Dean suppressed a sigh, getting that she was waiting for more information. Which Dean was going to have to supply, since she was the only one who could save him from trouble with his dad.

"Aubrey's having a hard time at school because she's scared something might happen to one of us," Dean told her with a sigh, trying to keep it as simple as possible. "And with Dad outta town today…she got upset. The school didn't have anyone else to call but me."

"I see," Ms. Lyman replied, looking back at him sympathetically. "I'm very sorry to hear about your mother, Aubrey."

"Thanks," Aubrey whispered.

"But it looks like you have a father and brothers who care about you quite a bit. Your older brother even skipped class to come get you," she told Aubrey with a soft smile.

"Yeah, D's nice and he loves us. He didn't at first, 'cause we have different mommies, and when Daddy found us, D wasn't feelin' good. He was real sick—he even had to go to the hospital. But he's better now, and he changed his mind about us. He looks after us real good when Daddy has to be gone somewhere," she told Ms. Lyman, obviously not seeing any problem with telling a stranger all about them.

"That's very sweet of—"

"Can we go home now?" Braden asked sedately, interrupting her without looking in her direction, his eyes never once wavering from Dean.

"Dude," Dean said, glancing over at his little brother with a stern expression. "Seriously. 'm dealing with something here. And you're bein' rude."

"Sorry," Braden said unapologetically, still staring placidly back at Dean with an unwavering gaze. "So can we?"

Dean sighed, suddenly feeling more tired than he had since he'd been in the hospital.

"Shit," he mumbled, dragging a hand through his hair before looking back at Ms. Lyman. "Look, I'm sorry about all this, but I can't stay any longer. If I need to stay for detention or something tomorrow, then I will, but right now, I gotta get them home."

"Hand me your notebook, Dean," she said, holding out her hand. With a sigh, Dean reached down and dug it out of his backpack before handing it over to her, already imagining the note she was no doubt about to write to his father. Taking a worksheet from the top of a stack on her desk without a word, she signed her name to the bottom and slipped it into the pocket of his notebook. Closing it, she pushed it across the desk toward him with a hint of a smile lurking at the corners of her mouth.

_Dude, no way._

"Get the worksheet done before your father gets home, and I suspect he'll never know."

"Really?"

"Don't misunderstand me, Dean—this is a once-in-a-lifetime offer. I expect you to be here tomorrow, come hell or high water. Otherwise, I _will_ be calling your father. Do you understand?"

"Yes ma'am," Dean told her respectfully, well aware that she was being more than fair with him. It was only fair to cut her some slack, too. Grabbing his notebook, he passed it to Braden before climbing to his feet, Aubrey still held securely. Shifting her once more to one arm, he relieved Braden of the weight of his backpack and shouldered the bag once more, nudging Braden towards the door. As he reached the door, he paused, turning back to Ms. Lyman with a questioning look.

"Yes, Dean?"

"I don't get it," he told her.

"I'm afraid I don't understand," she replied, frowning at him with confusion.

"I mean, I've been a total ass. So why would you help me?"

"Because, Dean," she began with a sad sigh, "there are some things that are more important than school work," she told him, glancing at the twins before meeting his eyes. "It's all about priorities. And I think you and I have finally come to an understanding about that. So I'll see you tomorrow, yes?"

"Yes ma'am," he replied, and though he knew it would most likely be boring as hell, he would be there tomorrow. And the next day, and the next until their dad packed them up and moved them away again. Because she was right. They all had their priorities, and if only this once, they were all on the same page.

Family came first. Always.

_Even before boring-ass poetry._


End file.
